


Paris and London

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris by night and London by day, and Francis and Arthur vexingly side by side in both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paris

France, Arthur admits (only to himself and his cigarette, dreamsmoke blown out with the breeze of an open windowpane, tucked-up in a window-seat with thoughts going nowhere), is beautiful at night. Were the Nation’s representative awake he would be terribly _smug_ about it – it is still unnerving, sometimes, how with Francis one doesn’t have to say actual _words;_ familiarity between Arthur and him has actually bred some _talent_ in the frog (beside a great deal of contempt). Francis can seize the flicker of a thought in Arthur’s face before Arthur has finished thinking it, would catch the reflection of reverence in Arthur’s eyes gleaming there beside the moon, the stars outshone by the wide glittering streets of Paris, _Paris,_ La Ville-Lumière.

But Francis is asleep, fast asleep behind Arthur, his silly silver-gold hair in his face and lips still dark-full from biting. Naked arm flung out in his bed as though to fill the faint depression Arthur left there upon getting up. Looking insufferably stupid and insufferably lovely as he breathes, breathes again, soft and slow and looking more like the city outside the window than the city itself can ever dream to be. Paris of all the ages, and all the land and time beyond. (Maybe it’s so attractive because of all the English blood that’s buried in it.)

Arthur watches Francis sleep, takes another drag of his cigarette and breathes out vague regrets at grabbing the first pair of discarded trousers he saw when getting up from the bed. The pair he picked is Francis’ – they hang too low and wide on his hips, the cold night air brushing in over his bare belly and ankles, the slight ache kept at the base of his spine. He debates slamming the window shut to startle Francis awake, out of the principle of it all (how _dare_ France look so peaceful?), but Francis awoken early is more vengeful than a cat, sharp-clawed and devil-eyed, bristling angrily to the glance (never mind touch). It’s not worth the effort, nor potentially getting shoved out of Francis’ apartment whilst his head is still carrying the cobwebs of sleep. Shame.

Arthur finishes his cigarette, closes the window after tapping the ashes to the city, and loses his adopted trousers so he can return to the country’s bed.

Francis shifts, stirs a little when Arthur moves his arm and huskily complains when the limb is rearranged to curl around cool flesh, blankets rucked up higher to wind around both of them. “T’es _froid._ ”

“Shut up,” Arthur grumbles to his throat, and shivers and curls into the warm arm slung once more about his waist.

Francis just sighs, sleeps again, and Arthur drifts off to the sound of the heartbeat of France both outside the window and steadily beating away in the chest beneath his head.


	2. London

London is a city that just _won’t shut up._ Rather indicative of England as a whole the noise flip-flops between that of a disapproving older gentleman complaining about the youth of today and that of the wild child youth yelling back at him to move on, get on with it, live a little or _die –_

“Francis, stop glaring at parliament. You’re scaring my tourists.”

Francis stops glaring to his right, where the Palace of Westminster is thronged with the usual amount of traffic and tourists (that _miraculously_ come out of hiding when England actually has a sunny day), and the group of Japanese tourists accidentally caught in the crosshair of his glower breathe a sigh of relief, hurry on. Hand curled around his bent knee he glowers, instead, down at Arthur – who isn’t even _looking_ at him, _le connard,_ sprawled out on his back in the sunshine on Francis’ stolen jacket, eyes blissfully shut and chocolate lollipop tucked firmly in his mouth.

With his shorts and t-shirt on and one sandal dangling half-forgotten off his foot, Arthur looks peaceful dozing the day away in his messy swirl of a city. Normally, Francis would be soaking up the tranquillity as well beside him, taking the opportunity to enjoy all the bare flesh his long-time annoyance (and occasional lover) has on show with lazy fingertips, spread coaxing hands on smooth skin – but today ( _today_ ), Arthur is (somehow) being perfectly _irritating._ Francis isn’t even definitely sure _how_ , since he can’t actually _see_ Arthur doing anything – save breathe (breathe in, breathe _out,_ the Thames curling through London to the pace of Arthur’s heart), and their bosses have made it abundantly clear to _both_ of them that they can no longer slap each other just for _breathing._

(Annoying as said breathing is.)

Arthur shifts, presses his shoulder-blades to the ground and _flexes_ to stretch the kinks out of his back and – oh, _oh,_ the millennia will pass but that will always be a delight to watch, all the oldest arches of London in the brief arch of Arthur’s back, the dreams of what Arthur-England can do. He rests again, with a sigh, head tilted to the side and half-nuzzling the collar of Francis’ coat, and – and that is _it,_ Francis thinks, decides, leans over to pull the lollipop’s stick from between Arthur’s slack lips and replace it with his mouth.

Arthur tastes of chocolate, warm and slightly fudgy, pushing back lazily into Francis’ kiss. The sun melts all his effort from him – and it is pleasant (and rare) to have Arthur so soft-mouthed and pliant; _yes_ , even when Francis pulls back a little way to breathe and he sees Arthur looking up at him with lowered green eyes, lips curling up into a small smug grin. With age comes bedevilry.

Three French girls jostle their shopping bags in their arms on the other side of the street Arthur and Francis have taken refuge on – students, since they’re complaining about the strange British accent of one of their professors, but they banter back and forth in the charming cadence of Francis’ tongue.

Despite its slowly improving taste – all the world somehow ends up in London, and it has done ever since Arthur stole the world.

Francis sighs down at Arthur, deploring. “You do not look _nearly_ ravished enough to be abusing my jacket the way you are.”

“I hardly need to add public indecency to the long list of my charges -”

“Again,” Francis adds.

“ _Again,_ ” Arthur agrees. Someone (a child, it sounds like, children) starts singing nearby – on the bridge perhaps, or across the river –, an off-key rendition of _Oranges and Lemons,_ and Arthur smiles. Smirks. Stretches out a hand so he can curl it very gently about the bare line of Francis’ throat and let his fingers _press._ “Shall I take you home?”

Blood rushes in Francis’ ears – mixes, melds, his heartbeat and the river and the streams of traffic and people around him, the gleam in Arthur’s gaze.

“If I may have the remainder of the lollipop,” Francis says, and twirls the last of the chocolate on its stick in front of Arthur’s nose.

(Arthur lets him have it, finds his sandal again and takes Francis home to bed.)


End file.
